Ann of Puffing Pot Pond: Writing Sample of Beginnings to Chapters 1-3
by Hobby Barn Bobby
Summary: "Ann of Puffing Pot Pond: A Canadian Classic as Retold for Today, by Hobby Barn Bobby." [This is a modern *Swearing* retelling of a classic tale that is meant as a humorous parody for adults. Some will like it, some will not. So I decided to have this separate, short, writing sample. Which is why this is marked as complete, while the other version will be marked as In-Progress.]


**Ann of Puffing Pot Pond**

_A Canadian Classic as Retold for Today_

_by _

_Hobby Barn Bobby_

___**"Ann of Puffing Pot Pond: A Canadian Classic as Retold for Today, by Hobby Barn Bobby." [This is a modern *Swearing* retelling of a classic tale that is meant as a humorous parody for adults. Some will like it, some will not. So I decided to have this separate, short, writing sample. Which is why this is marked as complete, while the other will be marked as In-Progress]**_

* * *

**CHAPTER I. ****Mrs. Lynde is Revealed to be a Sow**

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived near where the main road to Dirt Bag Alley dipped into a hollow, fringed with empty plastic pop bottles, traversed by a brook with a source in the backwoods of the Cuthbert place, by the field where Mr. Matthew grew the "Hay!" that gave Puffing Pot Pond its name; it had a complex reputation as a headlong brook in its earlier course, with dark secrets of the pool where Marilla, reportedly, dumped the bodies, however, once it got to Lynde's Hole it was a quiet little stream, because not even a brook would try to get past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's house without shutting the fuck up. It was quite aware that Mrs. Rachel was sitting, by her window, like the sow that she was, looking out for anything odd or out-of-place, and if she noticed anything like that, you knew you would never hear the end of her _whatever why fors_?

There are lots of people, in and around Dirt Bag Alley, who are such nosy pricks that they can only nitpick other people's affairs by neglecting their own shit, but Mrs. Rachel Lynde is such a capable creature she can manage not only her own shit, she can also throw down with the shit of others. She is a busy woman, after all, being a notable Madam, with her work being not only always done, it is always well done and always finishes with a happy ending, she also runs Stich & Bitch sessions, helps organize the Sunday rum running, and is the dopest pivot of the Queens County Roller Gals, a scourge to the jammer from St. Peters Bay, over in Kings County. Yet, despite all this business, Mrs. Rachel found time to sit on her ass by the window, for hours, stitching and bitching ill-fitting scarves—she knitted 16 of them, as Dirt Bag Alley house keepers were wont to tell, their awed voices lowering whenever they said, "But one end is always longer than the other?"—while eagle-eyeing the main road that crossed in front of Lynde's Hole. Since Dirt Bag Alley occupied a small peninsula that jutted out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, surrounded by water on two sides, it meant that anyone who came or went had to run Mrs. Lynde's all-seeing eye gauntlet.

So it was that, one afternoon in early June, she was sitting on her ass by the window, enjoying the warm sun; the orchard sloping down from the house was flush with colour and the buzzing of bees. Thomas Lynde—a meek little guy whom the folks of Dirt Bag Alley called, "Rachel Lynde's Gimp"— was out in the field beyond the barn interfering with a cow, as was his wont, despite repeated warnings from the local constabulary. And Matthew Cuthbert should have been up to similar antics, but with goats, on the big red brook field over at Puffing Pot Pond. Mrs. Rachel knew that was what he should presently be doing because she overheard him say to Peter Morrison, over at the store in Carmody, the evening before, that, "To wit, Peter, tomorrow I aim to plow that goat good and deep." This was only after Peter had made inquiries, for Matthew Cuthbert wasn't really known to share intel about most things in his whole life, particularly if it pertained to goat interference.

And yet, there's Matthew Cuthbert at half past three of a weekday afternoon, nary a goat (plowed or otherwise) nearby, quietly driving his buggy over the hollow and up to the hill. What is more, being dressed in his Sunday best, and going in the general direction that led away from town, Mrs. Lynde was quite certain that he was aiming to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Furthermore, given that he was driving the buggy, pulled by the little sorrel mare and not the beloved Clydesdale that was no good over distances ever since Mr. Matthew fucked it near half to death, it was quite apparent that he was planning on going some distance from Puffing Pot Pond, where he lived with his sister Marilla. Only two of them lived there. Keep that in mind for when the comment about the dinner plates comes up in a couple of paragraphs.

Now where was I, oh yes…Mrs. Lynde was a pondering as to where was it that Mr. Matthew's was a going. "Surely not up to Tignish? Why up there it's all just red hair and bucked teeth?" She pondered some more, in an out loud fashion so as to allow the reader to get a gist of her thoughts, "And why would he go anywhere without his beloved goats?" Being the nosy sow that she was, she might easily have inferred what just about any of the other gentlemen of Dirt Bag Alley might be doing leaving town. But Mr. Matthew was a quiet, shy man, who rarely left the safety and security of the farm at Puffing Pot Pond, and it vexed Mrs. Lynde's nosiness so much that she got the fuck up and off of her ass.

**CHAPTER II. Matthew Cuthbert's WTF Moment**

Well now, but didn't Matthew Cuthbert make it along the eight miles to the train station in Bright River in no time, thanks to the sorrel mare, whereas he might have still been trying to get there by Christmas if he'd harnessed up the beloved Clydesdale. It was a pleasant, pretty little road, running along between happy-go-lucky farmsteads and little bits of balsamy forests or jaunty little hollows where wild plums were hung out by the ne'er do wells of Moncton who had nothing better to do than show up on the Island during the season and dangle the filmy bloom of their plums. The sweet scent of apple orchards wafted on the breeze and the meadows sloped away, off to the horizon while:

_"Tiny birds were singing, like it was_

_The singular day of summer in all of the year long._"

See now, "_singular day of summer_" is, I won't shit you, not too far off out here on the Island. Seems the season has only just started and the next thing you know it's over and you're back on the pogey, spending the winter building hobby barns. But that's never no mind for Matthew, who enjoyed the drive in his own leisurely fashion, excepting when he passed women and had to nod to them, as was the custom on Prince Edward Island, whether you knew them or not. Thing is, aside from Mrs. Rachel and Marilla, Matthew dreaded all women, which is gonna make what happens in a few paragraphs a peachy keen WTF moment.

**CHAPTER III. Marilla Cuthbert's WTF Moment**

As the title of this chapter might hopefully indicate, Marilla wasn't in much of a _Que Sera, Sera _mood when Matthew trooped in with the little waif of a girl urchin in tow behind him.

_**"Ann of Puffing Pot Pond: A Canadian Classic as Retold for Today, by Hobby Barn Bobby." [This is a modern *Swearing* retelling of a classic tale that is meant as a humorous parody for adults. Some will like it, some will not. So I decided to have this separate, short, writing sample. Which is why this is marked as complete, while the other will be marked as In-Progress]**_


End file.
